


At a Crossroads

by ayuka86



Series: A World Turned Upside Down [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Male Character, Canon Era, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Dark Magic, Explicit Language, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Male Character, Ignores Who Tells Your Story, M/M, Male Friendship, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel, emotional mess Hamilton, people survive but with consequences, redoes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuka86/pseuds/ayuka86
Summary: After his duel with Burr, Alexander is given a choice. He can let fate play out or he can go back and try again. However, he is assured that the price will be steep. Unhappy with his lot, and forever unable to make the best decisions, Alexander takes the deal. Will he be able to save those he cares for and prevent making some of his biggest mistakes? If so, how will that affect his legacy-- or the future of the newly formed United States?Alexander's POVIgnores the latter third of "The World Was Wide Enough" and "Who Live, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story."
Relationships: Aaron Burr & Alexander Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton & Philip Hamilton (1782-1801), Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: A World Turned Upside Down [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882486
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	1. A Duel and a Deal

The sky is still mostly dark when the boats make landfall in New Jersey. The air is chilly on Alexander’s face and hands even though his leather gloves, leaving them slightly numb. He clenches his fists, attempting to restore circulation in the digits. The worn leather stretches over his knuckles with the motion.

Although the sound of his heart beats loudly in his ears, it’s otherwise mostly quiet, save for the sounds of their feet through the underbrush and the slight jangling of the pistols in their box. It takes little time for them to reach the clearing in which the duel will be done. Alexander is unsurprised when his finds that he is the last to pass between the two trees and onto the field. Both his and Burr’s seconds confer softly, before the doctor is paid, and the pistols brought.

While the duel is prepared, Alexander pulls out his glasses and surveys the terrain, all the while steadfastly ignores the glances from those around him. He can feel their eyes on him, even though the layers of clothing and chill clinging to them. He takes in the field, which is surrounded on all sides by trees and shrubbery. There are tall cliffs just visible in the distance, if he squints. The sound of water crashing against rocks is still somewhat audible. Looking down, there are spots where the grass has been worn down—if not removed altogether – by the booted feet of past duelists.

The rhythm in his chest falters before picking up and all at once he knows this place. He feels as his heart sinks. This is where—he is silently handed a pistol.

There is another moment or two of hushed conversation between the seconds that goes ignored by Alexander. He is too focused on the pistol in his hand. Eventually, he does lift his eyes from the weapon and hazards a glance at his opponent. He is just in time to catch Aaron Burr looking at him.

Everyone takes their places. Alexander feels faint warmth against his back for but a moment, before it is cold once more. He determinedly takes a step forward.

And then another and another, counting ten paces.

The pistol is feels heavy in his hand, the porcelain grip is frigid against his palm, despite the leather. He takes a breath through his nose and holds it. Limbs loose, he turns, heels digging into and scraping across the earth below. From the corner of his vision, he sees a flash long before he even hears a sound. But when he does hear it, the sound is deafening.

And time stops. His heart stops but his mind races, deliberating and pontificating to no one but himself. He dares to see the impossible; he sees not a bullet…

_I see Laurens leading a soldiers’ chorus on the other side._ John Laurens is grinning, his freckled cheeks scrunched and pink with joy and alcohol. An army of men of many different skin colors, all wearing blue jackets, stand behind him.

_My son is on the other side. He’s with my mother on the other side._ There, sat in a long-forgotten chair from his childhood, is Alexander’s mother. On her knee rests Philip’s head. She plays idly with the young man’s untamable mess of curls, while humming something Alexander cannot hear. But there is no trace of pain to be found on any of their features.

_Washington is watching from the other side._ The former general stands with his ramrod straight. His large hands are folded behind his back. His eyebrows are knit together and the corners of his mouth are turned down slightly. However, he doesn’t look angry as much as disappointed.

Alexander blinks and the phantoms are gone.

_Teach me how to say goodbye…_

Vision cleared, he looks across the field and can only see Burr—the almost manic look that had been splashed across his face is replaced with something akin to horror. Alexander feels pity rise up from his chest, though he isn’t sure for whom. The air escapes him and as it does, he knows as surely as he has ever known anything. He knows that his time is finally up.

He blinks again and feels the weight in his hand more acutely. The shot contained within is heavy.

_Rise up… rise up… rise up…_

The hand holding the pistol rises, as if by its own accord, until it’s aimed at his opponent’s chest. His finger is on its trigger. He knows that he would need to only apply the slightest of pressure…

He inhales.

There, on the wind, there is a scent of a familiar perfume. It’s slightly sweet. There but not. All at once, something unknowable rises up from deep inside and sticks itself in his throat. He tries to unstick it with a harsh breath—sob—out, but it remains unmoved. _Eliza… My love, take your time…_

His heart beats once, twice more. _I’ll see you on the other side._

The pistol again moves of its own volition, though he barely registers it. It is no longer cold. No longer heavy against his palm. The winds change and with them so does the scent. He breaths it in and revels in its familiarity. It is one of fire smoke and musk and mead.

_Raise a glass to free---_

There’s but a split second of pain… and then only darkness.

……

….

…

.

The darkness lasts and lasts and lasts until suddenly it doesn’t anymore. There is no feeling of time or of self or of anything, really, but when it does end, Alexander opens his eyes only to find himself on his back in the middle of a clearing. Above him is an overcast sky, wide in expanse and made up of a flat gray that easily burns the eyes. Blinking against the comfortableness, he notices with a start that although his glasses are gone, his sight is perfectly clear.

The next thing he notices is that his side feels warm and wet. However, there is no pain when my hand touches it gingerly, or blood upon inspection.

Carefully he sits up, and takes a glance around. It takes only seconds to recognize where he is and he finds himself having to bite back the groan. _Because of fucking course…_

With a little effort, Alexander manages to get back on his feet. Looking around, he finds himself alone. In fact, there isn’t even the single animal scurrying through the bush. In fact, it’s eerily quiet. Gone are the birds in the trees. Gone even is the sound of the wind and water against the rocks. It’s unnatural, oppressive, and highly uncomfortable.

He brings a hand to his chest and feels nothing.

Thoroughly disquieted, he attempts what had always worked for him in the past: babbling, even if only to himself…

“Ok, so, at least I know where I am. Sort of,” he takes in field critically, mapping out the terrain. He is unsurprised to see the same trees, bushes, and cliffs as before. The grass is still worn in places, though on further inspection, it looks even worse for wear. There are additional bare patches, both along where duelists often walked their paces, as well as a few which run perpendicular. Following the line of bare patches a few yards, his eyes catch on a dark stain. Oddly, it doesn’t entirely look like blood.

Under it are two intersecting patches of barren earth, “That’s where I…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, let alone the thought. Something uncomfortable rises up inside of him, followed by the coldest of shivers running down his spine. He is not sure if it is due to the unnerving quiet, the thought of what all this might mean, or something else entirely.

“Alright. That’s fine. So if that’s where… Burr shot me… then that means we came through… those trees. I’ll simply retrace my steps and see where that leads me,” He does his best to ignore the wisps of panic clawing at his gut and make for the clearing between the two trees. Taking wide step, he crosses the field quickly. Examining the trees, he finds the long double notches carved into the bark, demarking this space as a dueling ground. Nodding with satisfaction, he pats the tree, and makes to continue through.

Not two seconds later, he steps back and look at the forest beyond. “Ohhh kay…”

He raises a hand and slowly extend it forward, between the two trees, testing for resistance or some sort of barrier. The hand continues forward, unimpeded so far as the trees continue, but not an iota further, despite how much force is applied. There is no resistance or counter force. There also isn’t anything physical, “Yeah, ummm, that’s… not weird at all…”

He steps back again, looking the trees up and down. At the base of the tree there is a stone nestled into the root. He picks it up and ties throwing it as hard as he can manage, given his age and profession. It sails in an arch through the two trees and a decent way through the forest, before skittering to a stop several yards away. He looks from the stone, to his hand, to the stone again.

“So it’s just **me** ,” He turns his back to the two trees and slowly walks in the direction of the clearing, before turning sharply on his heel. Sprinting as fast as he could manage, he makes again for the forest, bringing his arms up the shield his face at the last moment. 

Immediately, he finds himself back in the middle of the clearing, “Ok, definitely just me, then.”

…………

………

……

…

He spends an indeterminable amount of time investigating his surroundings. He looks at every tree, every shrub, every rock—everyplace but **there** and finds no clues. In frustration, Alexander eventually takes to tearing at the foliage until every leaf he can lay his hands on strewn about the ground.

When that is done, he takes to pacing, to walking the circumference of clearing like a beast. When he tires of that he begins walking across the field lengthwise, north to south. All the while he mutters to himself, if only to hear the sound of something, glad that he doesn’t need to stop for breath or for drink. The entire time, he stays away from **there**.

He debates with himself whether or not he is the recipient of some sort of divine punishment—perhaps for all those he had killed during the wall, or for some of the less honorable comprises he made during his time in congress or even… he thinks of Laurens and nearly sobs.

He then considers the possibility of being a ghost, bound to this small plot of land, before dismissing it. He refuses to think too deeply about the implications. If that were the case, then wouldn’t—no, he shuts that train of thought down.

But, thought after thought runs through Alexander’s brain, until he is sure that he will go mad.

Against his better judgement, and perhaps some deep-seeded and long-forgotten sense of self preservation, he turns to that which he had been so studiously ignoring; the tainted earth. In less time than he would have liked, Alexander finds himself standing before the stain, which lay between intersecting patches of barren earth. Curling his lip in distaste, he can’t help but be reminded of a scab.

_Is this really all that is left of me?_

_Who’s going to tell **my** story?_

He kneels down to investigate it further. Upon closer inspection, the blotch is not dried blood like he had previously thought, but still very much a dark—almost black—liquid. It is viscous with thin tendrils extending outwards long the bare soil. It just vaguely makes the shape of an X.

_If only I had more time…_

_If only I had known what I know now…_

_If only I could change who… lives… or dies…_

_If only I hadn’t…_

_If only I could have…_

His fingers brush against the inky blackness and once again he is in a sea of endless darkness. However, this time, he is aware not only of himself but of another.

“Hey, Pops,” Philip smiles and raises his hand in greeting, entirely unperturbed. 

The two men float, as if standing, in a void with no visible end or beginning. There are no sources of light, yet both can see the other as plain as day. Had they been on solid ground, they would be only a few paces away from one another.

“Wha—what’s the meaning of this? I… saw you… on the other side,” Alexander’s voice is weak. He looks his son up and down, taking in each detail. His eyes dart to the spot in his side where he was shot before looking at his wrist, but there are no signs of injury or traces of blood. Philip stands hale and whole, beaming at him with a wide smile that is all teeth. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes in the way Alexander remembers.

“Oh? Did you?” Philip asks, tilting his head. The smile falters the tiniest bit, but he does little more than shrug lightly, “Well, I suppose it could be said that you were the one to upon call me.”

Alexander feels something cold settle in his chest.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG!_

“You… are **not** my son!” he snarls, hands curling into fists. Although there is nothing below him, Alexander still attempts to plant his feet shoulder’s width apart. He makes the mistake of looking away from the entity in front of him and downwards. The sight is disconcerting, as well as nausea inducing—he briefly wonders if he can indeed vomit—so he snaps his eyes back up with an audible swallow.

“No, I’m not,” says the thing wearing Philip’s face. The smile morphs into a more neutral expression, but his eyes narrow critically. It tilts its head to the opposite side, studying Alexander before speaking, “It has been my experience that my… clients… enjoy a bit of familiarity during our transactions.”

It raises a hand and waves it towards Alexander while bowing its head slightly, “Apologies for the upset.”

“How fucking dare you—”

“Is this better,” asks the dry, nasally tone of one Thomas Jefferson. It shifts its stance, leaning its weight on one leg, and places its hands on his cocked hips.

It only serves to make Alexander want to punch it more.

“Look, I don’t know what you think you’re playing at—”

“I do not _play_ at anything—”

“But if you think you can just pull that shit with me, then you’ve got another thing coming!”

A single, thick, eyebrow raises upwards, unimpressed. The similarities between it and the real Jefferson were uncanny. “Just what do you expect to do, exactly? You do realize that you are in fact dead, do you not?”

The two continue to stare at one another.

“Then what do you want?” And the words are out of Alexander’s mouth before he can stop them. Almost instantly, a part of him can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, Burr had had a point.

“To engage in a mutually beneficial exchange of sorts,” it says simply, removing one hand from its hip to examine a needlessly frilly cuff. The corner of its lips turn down at something only it can see on the lace.

“Whaaa?”

It looks up before rolling its eyes sky—up—wards. “Do close your mouth. It is most unbecoming.”

For once he does as told.

“It was my impression that you are left… unsatisfied. Would you not wish to remedy that? Given the chance, I mean,” it asks, extending its arms in a most Jeffersonian fashion. The smile turns sharp.

_A chance… a chance to change things… to make them better…_

The offer is tempting, Alexander must admit. His lips part, ready to speak…

_No, I do not make deals with… whatever this thing is, be it some sort of fay, a demon, or the very devil himself._

He tries to shake his head, but he only ends up looking away instead, because it is so very, very tempting. The word, that word he couldn’t manage to utter so many summers ago, dies in his throat. Instead, one simple three letter word settles on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out and damn him.

“You do realize where you are already headed, do you not?” It leans back, pulling itself to its full—impressive—height. It looks down its nose at Alexander as its smile transforms into a full-on grin. The effect makes Alexander feel small, feel nineteen again. “You didn’t believe you were going **there** , did you? With all those men you’ve killed? All those lives you’ve damaged though your dealings? The hurt you caused your family—your wife? Your son?”

Alexander jerks back as though he had been stuck.

It takes a moment for his usually quick mind to process his thoughts, but once is does, the words pour out one after the other; uncontrollable and unfiltered, “Fine, you’re right! I know I’m no saint, not even close, but most of those things… they were mistakes. Honest mistakes. I know that doesn’t absolve me, doesn’t fix the damage I’ve caused, but I’d like to think that I’ve… that I’ve done more good than harm in my life! ‘Cause, I tried, I really did! I fought, killed, for our freedom—and the freedom of others—and by god, if nothing else, I tried to do right by my children and my children’s children. I---”

“That’s enough.”

Through blurry eyes, Alexander can see that it’s holding up a hand.

“You want more time. You want to fix, or undo, your mistakes. You want people to remember you. Fine,” it says, tone bored. “But know that the price will be high.”

A chill runs through the entirety of Alexander’s body.

The creature wearing Jefferson’s face steps closer and then closer still, until Alexander has to crane his neck. The sneer disappears and is replaced by a serious expression. “You are an important man, Alexander Hamilton. With you comes change great and small. What will you make of your nation, your time?”

There is a flutter in Alexander’s chest, so akin to a heartbeat, but not. It is a soft thing, barely there.

Alexander stares and then whispers, “Why are you helping me?”

“Why not?”

Before he can ask or dwell anymore, there is a searing, white hot pain in his side. It consumes all of his thoughts, all of his body. His eyes screw shut against the pain and his hands grip fruitlessly at his rib cage. Through the pain, a tiny part of his mind registers it as wet, but the thought is quickly shoved aside. All he knows is that this pain is somehow a thousand times more painful than being shot.

Then all at once, it stops and he takes a deep breath. It proves to be a mistake because the air feels ice cold, causing him cough uncontrollably. They rack his body, causing him to curl in on himself even further, though he doesn’t remember doing so to begin with.

Then there are hands, warm and large, gripping at him and lifting his body into a sitting position. One of the hands move to his back, insistently thumping at the space between his shoulder blades, as his body tries valiantly to remember how to breathe. The other moves to rest on his shoulder, a thick forearm slung across his chest.

His face is hot and red from coughing. He is sure that feels tears running down his face. The lack of air makes Alexander dizzy, so he gratefully leans against the support. Through it all, there is a calm voice in his ear saying, “Hey, man. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

The spasms in Alexander’s chest eventually start to subside and pulling the proper amount of air into his lungs becomes less of a chore. By that time, his body is shaking and overly warm, despite the lingering chill to the air. His body gradually cools by degrees.

He allows himself to go boneless, eyes still shut. His throat is sore and in need of water, or better yet, tea.

“What was **that** all about?” the voice in his ear asks, chucking nervously. “Don’t tell me you’re coming down with something.”

Sluggishly, Alexander attempts to blink the black spots out of his eyes.

The first thing he notices is the mass of wild curls in the corner of his vision. The second is the musky, spicy scent of the man next to him. It is a vividly familiar one, though it has been years since he last encountered it. The third is the oiled canvas of the tent around the uncomfortable cot he is sat upon.

“Alexander?” This time the voice is softer, even more uncertain.

Alexander turns his head slowly and there in all his freckled glory, is John Laurens, young and wonderful, and alive.


	2. A Dream if by Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander finds himself in the company of one John Laurens, who does his best to make Alex's transition into his new existence as easy as possible.

Through the dim lighting, the two men stare at one another for what feels like an eternity, but could only realistically be minutes. Distantly, there is the soft ticking of a pocket watch coming from somewhere below the cot. Alexander muses that it is most likely property of John Laurens, as he owns no such trinket, though he half-remembers intending to buy one. As his mind begins to calm, he also remembers John often affixing it to his breeches and subsequently forgetting about the timepiece. Said breeches often found themselves in the damndest of places—be it under a cot or slung through the branches of a tree. The memory causes Alexander to huff in amusement, which Laurens promptly seems to mistake for a cough, if the tightening of his arms are anything to go by. 

“Seriously, though. You aren’t getting sick on me, are you?” Laurens leans in a little, causing his knee to dig into the side of Alexander’s hip. Despite the thinness of the fabric of Alexander’s nightshirt, he no longer feels as though he has been dipped into the Potomac mid-winter. 

Alexander shakes his head.

The first time he attempts to speak, his voice is a mess. He of course tries again, but is stopped by a squeeze to his shoulder, before Laurens draws away for a moment to retrieve Alexander’s canteen from somewhere close to the foot of the bed. When he has it, he hesitates a second before handing it over. As soon as it is in his hands, Alexander all but tears out the cork and drinks deeply. The cool water is heaven on his throat and when he has had his fill, he caps it.

Laurens holds out his hand expectantly, but Alexander instead sets the canteen on his own lap. For a beat, Laurens seems at a loss, but eventually he gingerly settles the hand around the thin muscle of Alexander’s upper arm. It’s just tight enough to be felt yet easily shaken off, should the need arise.

Alexander tries again, “No, no. It was simply…”

He pauses, unsure of what to say. The thought of telling his friend the truth floats though his mind, but he dismisses it quickly. If by some slim chance he is not thought absolutely mad, Alex is afraid that his closest friend would turn away, appalled by his decisions—and not only the one to collude with dark forces. For as open-minded and forward thinking as John Laurens was, even he had his limits.

_No_ , he decides.

“A night terror,” he says instead, patting the hand on his arm shoulder. He tries his best to scrounge up a convincing grin, though he isn’t sure how much of it would be seen given the low light. He notices for the first time that there are no lamps in the small tent nor is there even a candle. The only light is the sliver coming through the flaps of the tent. Judging by the hue and amount, Alexander estimates that it is a little before dawn. “It’s nothing to worry over, my dear, Laurens.”

Laurens pulls away abruptly, scooting backwards and settling himself on his hunches at the edge of the bed, one stiff breeze from falling from his perch. There is no longer the weight of his knee against Alexander’s hip or the comforting grip around his arm.

The chill returns with a vengeance.

“Alexander.” Something about the tone makes a lead weight settle in Alexander’s stomach, while he realizes that he doesn’t know exactly where—no when—he is. Nothing about the situation is familiar—save for the ticking of the pocket watch, which is still ticking though the pre-dawn quiet—enough to tell him where exactly he has landed up.

He looks at the canteen in his lap. It’s a run-of-the-mill soldier’s equipment. He sucks in a breath and tries to look for some other clue, a jacket perhaps, but sees nothing. He wonders if it too us in a heap at the foot of his bed. He debates throwing himself forward to look when he hears the rustle of fabric at his side. He remembers that he isn’t alone.

Laurens is fiddling with the cuffs of his nightshirt. He sniffles once, looking everywhere but at Alexander, “I don’t mind fetching the doctor.”

“I…” Alexander, for once, doesn’t know what to say. His body’s gone cold.

Laurens presses a palm against the bedding, taking care not to touch Alexander’s leg, pushes his weight off of the cot, and stands. He takes a step back followed by another, before turning at the waist to grab for something that Alexander can’t quite make out.

There is a horrible moment where Alexander is near certain that it is for his pistol.

_This isn’t… this isn’t how this is supposed to go…_

_So often had I pondered what I would say given a chance to see my friend one more time… so often I imagined the countless endearments, the endless apologies, that would spill from my lips if granted the chance… but now that he is next to me…_

_How am I to beg for forgiveness for a death that, to him, has not yet occurred? How am I to explain away the years of pain and grief and hardship? How am I to reconcile the person he knew—knows?—with the person I am now?_

Alexander clenches his fists in frustration. The palms are wet. His heart is beating like a war drum. The room’s temperature increases sharply. His skin feels sticky. Muscles twitch under his skin, as although ready for battle. But all the while, his mind sharpens keenly.

_Am I expected to do this for everyone I know?_

His breathing increases with the thought, deepens, becomes loud in the quiet pre-dawn air. Only Alexander’s heartbeat—frantic and much too quick—is louder.

_Am I expected to know these people intimately—the same, yet different—all the while never being truly known myself? To carry this weight with me for the rest of my earthly existence, until I am eventually dragged down, down, down as far as one can ever possibly go?_

_Is this the price I am meant to pay?_

“Alexander,” Laurens turns, with the ribbon his so often wore in hand. His eyes are wide and glinting where the light hits them through the opening in the tent. Although he looks concerned, his eyes lack the warmth Alexander is so familiar with. They are a stranger’s eyes and with a start, Alexander realizes that this man is not his Laurens, may never be his Laurens…

And then there is a pressure falling over. It presses from all sides. It raises and falls, ebbs and flows, not unlike before a storm, before a hurricane. It presses against his mind, dulling his reasoning until all that he can hear are the sounds of screams and rushing water. For a moment, he is in Charlestown, watching it be washed away. In the next heartbeat—which he feels more than hears—he is swaying in time to the music with Eliza. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

She opens her mouth to speak but all that comes out is the deafening sound of cannon fire. He flinches and shuts his eyes against the sound. He doesn’t see the spray of warm blood against his face but he feels it all the same. His hand comes up to wipe it away, but his fingers are clutched around something.

He opens his eyes and there is a pistol in his hand. He doesn’t bother to wonder how it got there. Instead, he looks up, half expecting to see Aaron Burr. However, it is Philip standing seven paces away, fingers red at his side. The young man looks so very confused, as red runs through his fingers and over the folds of his clothes like little rivers. His lips are moving and Alexander feels his own move with them.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev—_

“Alexander!”

Alexander’s head snaps up and all at once his senses return to him. He is still on the cot, in a too-small tent, with John Laurens hovering over him. There is enough light to see his features more clearly. His eyes are wide, hazel pupils darting back and forth, and eyebrows drawn upward. His hair is a mess, sticking in places to his face and neck. His breathing is harsh as he balances with one knee on the cot and both hands on Alexander’s shoulders.

The grip is almost bruising but it does well to ground Alexander.

“Sorry—” Alexander says, clearing his throat, “Sorry you had to see that.”

Laurens shakes his head, equal parts relieved and exasperated. When he speaks, he takes noticeable effort to keep his tone soft, “What the hell was that? And don’t tell me it was nightmares. That was… that was fucked up. Half scared me to death.”

Alexander runs a hand through his hair, wincing at the moisture there. The motion dislodges Lauren’s hands, causing Alexander to frown. “Then would you accept memories?”

“What do you mean?” Laurens asks, settling more fulling onto the cot. He eventually decides to sit facing Alexander, with one foot planted against the floor. He reaches back behind him with one hand, retrieving his hair ribbon. 

Alexander picks his words carefully, watching Laurens, “What do you remember me saying about my life before… now?”

“Not too much. You never really talk much about your past, man. And I never thought it’d be polite to ask. I mean, we’ve only known each other for a little while, so,” he replies while Alexander watches him attempt to finger comb his hair into a tightly pulled tail at the nape of his neck. The first attempt is a failure.

“I mean, I know you’re an immigrant, like Lafayette. I’ve also heard that you’re… an orphan. But I don’t know how true that is or… if it’s really any of my business,” Laurens continues, trying again. This time he succeeds. “To be honest, I never really thought too much about where you came from, so much as where you are now, you know? I figured that you’d tell me, eventually, if you wanted me to know.”

Alexander feels a surge of affection for the man.

“A bit before I came here,” he pauses, wondering again how honest he should be. In the end, he decides to put his silver tongue to use and keep things truthful if incredible vague. “There was a storm… and it destroyed almost everything it touched. It amassed power… slowly at first… but the more powerful it grew the more people it hurt. Usually, it’s calmest at the center of the storm… the safest… but not this one.”

The explanation comes out sounding clinical, but Alexander forces himself to continue. He focuses on the multitude of freckles across Laurens’ nose. He is thankful when the other man doesn’t admonish him for it. “So many died and those who survived…”

Alexander rubs his hands over his face, “At the end of it all, when all of the noise and pain and everything was over, I found myself standing in a clearing. Alone. With a choice to make: stay or go.”

Laurens’s arms are crossed lightly over his chest, his face serious. He is looking at Alexander as though studying him—much like he would a subject of a drawing, Alexander’s mind supplies. The ticking of the pocket watch count the seconds—fifty three in total—until he speaks, “So you came here.”

“Yeah.”

Alexander counts an additional one hundred and eight seconds before Laurens uncrosses his arms, his expression shifting to something a bit more awkward. One of his hands curls into a loose fist, and moves forward slowly enough for Alexander to easily follow with his eyes, before knocking lightly against the place where Alexander’s chest meets his shoulder.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

And like that the tension drains from both of them.

Not long after, the two prepare themselves for the day—Alexander regains his bearing somewhat after spotting a familiar jacket from his time in the Hearts of Oak—and leave for a tiring, though mostly uneventful, day in the year 1776.

……….

……

…

.

It doesn’t take long before Alexander finds his path intersecting with those of Marquis de Lafayette and Mulligan once more. For the most part, the pair don’t seem to notice anything too different about Alexander’s behavior, though at this point in time neither of them knows the younger man enough to tell. At least, that’s what Alexander tells himself.

Laurens, however, is a curious case. Ever since Alexander’s arrival—or should he say, re-arrival—Laurens has taken it upon himself to study Alexander, often watching the younger man from the corner of his eye. While flattering at first, Alexander can’t help but notice that there is slight suspicion behind his friend’s eyes, which hadn’t been there before. Instead, he pretends not to see the downward quirk of Laurens’ lips when he begs their gang to be more cautious. He pointedly ignores the furrow of Laurens’ eyebrows when he reacts too coolly to events that would incense a younger man.

Still, Laurens tries to be a good friend. He continues to try to soothe Alexander on the nights he decides to finally rest and is plagued by dreams of empty fields and bloody duels. He attempts to help Alexander with his studies, although Alexander is already well acquainted with the contents having studied it before. However, Alexander tries to pretend otherwise letting the other man have his way. It’s a fine balance, he finds, between pretending to be nineteen again and actually being nearly fifty.

One thing that is different this time is how much Laurens is willing to share about himself, his past, and his family. In ‘his first life’—as Alexander has taken to calling it—the John Laurens he knew was cautious with the information, but he had opened up about most things to Alexander in short time since their initial meeting, especially if liquor was involved. Of course, there were quite a few things Alexander had learned only after his dear friend’s death—take his marriage and child, for example. Additionally, there had always been an undertone of more-than-friendly admiration in the later years, which Alexander sorely misses in their interactions.

_I’ll have to rebuild all of my relationships from the ground up. It may prove troublesome, but maybe I can prevent some rather nasty misunderstandings and circumvent some headaches later on. Jefferson should be easier to deal with this time around, provided things go as they did last time and he’s even elected into any sort of office… same goes for—_

“You **are** aware that when I said to **talk less** , this wasn’t exactly what I meant,” the smooth voice to his right snaps Alexander out of his thoughts and for a heartbeat he is back in a field, pistol in hand, before the moment passes. When it does, he’s back at camp, leaning against a tree much taller and older than he. It’s mid-afternoon and the sounds of men training with their bayonets twenty yards away mix with the sounds of a few other men preparing their supper over the fire make for ample background noise.

Taking a shaky breath, he turns his head and looks at the man next to him, “Aaron Burr, sir.”

“Alexander Hamilton,” he greets with a small smile.

This man is a far cry from the Aaron Burr whom Alexander is more accustomed to. This man is friendlier, if a bit aloof, and so very much younger. The lines under his eyes are gone. His hair is a solid black. He holds himself differently, is less tense overall. But most of all, he doesn’t look at Alexander with contempt.

It throws Alexander for a loop.

Something about Alexander’s countenance—he isn’t sure if it’s the lackluster reply or the world weary eyes Laurens once complained about after several drinks—causes Burr to take pause and the smile to fall off of his face. His eyes narrow slightly.

“Did I… do something to offend you, sir?” Burr asks cautiously. One of his hands twitches at his side and it takes everything in Alexander not to react.

_Pull it together._

“N-no, nothing of the sort,” Alexander forces out. “Don’t mind me. I’ve just not been sleeping well. To excited to see some action. You know how it is.”

Burr looks at him for a long moment. It stretches on far longer than is comfortable. Alexander tries hard not to fidget under the intense stare and just manages to do it. He thinks it must have been due to so many years spent in Congress. Perhaps he had managed to learn some small amount of self-restraint somewhere along the way. But all the same, his body itches to move, be it to fight or to run.

_So much for sorting out thirty years of disagreements… I can’t even stand to be in the same space as the guy, let alone work with him._

Alexander watches as Burr crosses his arms, contemplating in silence. He seems to debate between two extremes, if his eyebrows and wrinkle of his nose are any indication.

One of the men preparing their dinner—stew, by the smell of it—bangs his wooden spoon against the side of his pot twice with a loud clang. The sound cuts through the camp, even over all of the other noises. It startles Alexander enough that he feels his shoulders flinch.

Burrs eyes, of course, hone in on the small action.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Burr says, sighing. He keeps his voice low as to not be overheard, though the likelihood of that happening is quite low. Still, it seems to be more for Alexander’s benefit than his own.

“Then don’t,” Alexander wants to say, but manages to contain his outburst by biting the inside of his cheek. He breathes deeply through his nose and reminds himself that this isn’t his Burr, just like Laurens isn’t his Laurens. He wills his heartbeat to slow.

_There isn’t any reason why Burr should have any animosity towards me. Not yet. Calm down._

“But you’ve been off lately. Really off,” Burr continues, pulling a small square of fabric from his pocket.

His motions are slow, measured, and well aware of Alexander’s eyes following every one of his movements. He pretends at being unaffected by the scrutiny, slowly bringing the cloth to his temple and dabbing at a few drops of sweat there. When he had done that, he returns the fabric to the pocket of his coat just as gingerly, “And I know you might not believe it, or even care, but I’ve been worried about you.”

Alexander feels his head jerk back in surprise, but can’t muster the embarrassment from the action. Instead he stares at Burr, feeling like his feet were swept out from under him. At that moment, he is glad that he is leaned against a tree.

“I know we have our differences, and that you’re much closer with those other three… misfits,” Burr continues, attempting a disarming smile, although it’s very much clear that he isn’t used to it so it comes out much more awkward than it should, “But for what it’s worth, I **don’t** dislike you.”

And every tense muscle in Alexander’s body relaxes in a downwards cascade. He lets go of a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. He doesn’t understand why he feels relieved by the comment, but Alexander accepts it none the less. While he might still be uncomfortable around Burr—and probably will continue to be for some time—it is a step in the right direction and it does help alleviate the budding panic that had been bubbling in his chest.

A weak grin tugs at Alexander’s lips.

“Even if you’re… a handful at times,” Burr adds. He then directs his gaze sky, “If there’s anything you need, well, us orphans have to look out for one another, right?”

However, before Alexander can respond, there is a yelp followed by shout of Laurens’ name from across the camp, making Alexander’s blood run cold. He exchanges a look with Burr and then both of them are bounding in that direction, as fast as they are able.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was challenging but very fun to write. I'm still getting a feel for all of the character voices, though I love writing Laurens, since his style is the most modern and closest to what we're used to. Burr is also fun, since he is constantly rolling Nat 20s on his perception rolls. I'd like to explore the dynamic between him and Alexander, since I think they could've been great friends if only Alex knew when to pull back and Burr knew when to be forthcoming.


	3. Say What You Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander does what he does best: acts like he's the smartest in the room. Meanwhile, Burr tries to prevent any more bloodshed while Laurens just wants some goddamn answers.

It doesn’t take long for either Alexander or Burr to make their way to the source of the commotion. Still, the time spent crossing their ramshackle—rather small, admittedly—camp certainly felts like an eternity. Much to Alexander’s dismay, Burr’s longer legs help put him a couple of paces ahead, blocking Alexander’s view of what lay beyond. Alexander pushes himself harder to catch up, panting with his heart in his throat. The entire time, his mind conjures up horrific images of what might have befallen his friend—each much more gruesome than the last.

_No, no, no, no, no! He isn’t supposed to—_ he doesn’t allow himself to finish the thought. He simply pumps his legs harder, eventually catching up with Burr, who has slowed down slightly.

Once the two men have arrived at the unimpressive patch of land set aside for training, they are both surprised at the lack of spectacle and blood. It is quiet as an operational military encampment could be, even one as small and poorly organized as theirs, with a handful of young men observing the scene with bayonets in hand. At the center, sat on the ground, is Laurens who is clutching at left shoulder. Although his face is twisted in a grimace, he doesn’t look too worse for wear. Across from him stands a boy, dressed in a too big jacket, and obviously no older than sixteen. He is holding his bayonet across his chest, clearly terrified. A thin line of red edges the weapon.

With little more than a glance, Alexander practically throws himself to his knees at Laurens’ side. As soon as his knees hit the soil, the entirety of his attention is focused on checking the older man’s arms for injuries. Both of his hands, as well as his eyes, flutter across Laurens’ frame. Even though Alexander is nothing close to being a doctor, so far as he can tell, aside from whatever is hidden under Laurens’ hand, there doesn’t seem to be any other damage.

Alexander turns his attention to said hand, leaning forward to nudge it with one of his own. He ignores the startled look Laurens gives him when he invades the man’s personal space, nudging again until Laurens takes the hint. He does, hissing through his teeth. The sound is soft, but it puts Alexander on edge. Laurens pulls his hand away just enough to check out of the corner of his eye—obscuring Alexander’s view—before his places it back over the wound.

He turns to Alexander, “Woops. Got a bit careless.”

Alexander isn’t sure if he wants to hug him or smack him.

He opens his mouth to say something witty, but his voice fails him when his eyes catch on the red sluggishly leaking between Laurens’ fingers. He finds it again soon after, when he is turning sharply towards the boy still standing frozen across from them. When he does speak, his voice comes out much louder and harsher than intended, but he can’t scrounge up enough sympathy to care, “What the hell is wrong with you? He could have been hurt—killed—all because you don’t seem to know which end goes where!”

There is sharp intake of breath next to him. Incensed, Alexander is pushing himself up into a crouch, opening his mouth to berate the boy further. There is a litany of unkind words on his tongue, but he can spit them out, he is beaten to the punch by Aaron Burr, who turns the youth towards himself. Keeping his hands on the boy’s shoulders, he shoots a nasty look in Alexander’s direction, before calmly calling for the boy—who at this point looks very ready to piss himself—to give him his attention. When he speaks, it’s with the same calm, measured tone, that he had used with Alexander only moments before, “Why don’t you tell me what happened, son?”

“I-I-I didn’t mean too, sir. I was—I was practicing like the lieutenant showed us—and, and…”

“It’s alright, it was an accident,” Burr supplies, ever the voice of reason. He nods along with the boy’s words, adding noncommittal sounds here and there to show that he is listening.

“I swung my bayonet, but he—he didn’t move in time. I tried to pull it back, I swear to god I did, sir, but—”

“So you’re saying it’s **his** fault?” Alexander can’t help but cut in.

“Hamilton!” Burr snaps back, causing the boy to flinch. The bayonet jerks with the motion and for one awful second, Alexander envisions it going though Burr’s chest. Thankfully the man has the sense to let go and take a step back, though any possible irritation at the boy is well-masked. Burr raises his hands up, palms out, in front of his chest.

“Look, no one here blames you,” he says while shoots another dark look at Alexander from over the boy’s head. Alexander struggles to keep his mouth shut, but allows himself to respond with a rather rude gesture, which Burr ignores entirely. He is too focused on keeping his eyes on the boy—or rather his bayonet, “Least of all Mister Laurens. Isn’t that right?”

“Y-yeah, kid, I was being stupid. I should’ve been paying more attention,” Laurens replies, tone light. It irritates Alexander to no end, and he shoots what he is sure must be a dark look at his friend, but Laurens refuses to make eye contact. He ignores Alexander, choosing to shift his legs a bit and experiment with putting weight on his injured arm. Seeming satisfied with the result, he shifts further, preparing to push himself to his feet while keeping his hand over the wound, “For next time, though, try pulling the butt of your riffle down towards the ground instead of to the side if you need to disengage. I’ll show you later, if you want.”

“Absolutely—”

“Hamilton, go take Mister Laurens to get patched up. I’ll deal with this,” Burr says, sounding tired, but firm. He doesn’t even check to see if Alexander is following his orders, turning his full attention towards the boy instead.

Alexander wants to argue, feels that familiar anger welling up inside him—the itch to be proven right, to show the world that his ideas are the only ones that should be followed—but is stopped but the sight of John Laurens getting to his feet. He stands with a wince, still looking anywhere but at Alexander. Alexander feels the anger evaporate. In its place there is only shame.

Laurens takes a few steps away and Alexander stumbles to his feet, far less gracefully. He follows a step or two behind, trying hard not to stare at the older man’s back. Instead, he looks over their camp and wonders not for the first time how they ever expected to win the war before George Washington stepped up. The camp they are in is barebones, made up only of an old farm house surrounded by poorly constructed tents, dotted with a handful of fires with which the men were expected to cook on and keep warm with. The soldiers—not that they could even be called that, Alexander’s mind supplied—are naught more than a class’ worth of students from King’s College and two or three slightly more experienced militia men who volunteered to help out. They have only a dozen horses between them, several having come from the farm itself, and even fewer munitions. The only things they have in abundance are their passion and recklessness.

Alexander’s irritation rises again.

He knows, from experience, that many of the faces he has become accustomed to seeing will be long gone before the war is over. Many will lose their lives to musket or cannon fire, while many more will die of starvation or exposure. He knows, better than anyone that regardless of their pleas help will not be coming.

_That’s another thing I have to do, make sure to give Presiden—no, General—Washington every advantage I can. Maybe we can end this war quicker, with fewer casualties, and get this nation up and running sooner._

His hands begin clenching and unclenching at his sides, remembering bitter cold nights punctuated by the sounds of empty, aching stomachs. He decides he’ll be damned if he expects anything resembling help from the Continental Congress. He was going to make sure that he, and his, could rely on and provide for themselves.

He bows his head slightly and watches his feet as he walks. He thinks about the odds and ends he has started collecting in his pack: bits of hardtack from his rations— he reasons that it’s better to eat a little less now so that he could save some for later—a very meager amount of British currency that he may have obtained though less than honorable means, and very small bottle of decent quality alcohol to barter with if need be. He of course plans to add to his collection as best he can.

With each step he is pulled deeper into his own mind, with each step he adds another item or task to his list. He is so focused that he almost jumps when Laurens’ irritated voice cuts interrupts him mid-thought.

“What the hell **was** that?” he asks.

Alexander stops in his tracks, “Come again?”

They are close to the farm house. It is a one storied affair, crudely built of what Alexander assumes to be local stone, topped with an angled wooden roof. There are traces of whitewash on the sides of the house, but the majority has long been stripped off by countless New York winters. The door is simple wood and the structure has few windows to let in the light. Alexander knows from previous visits that the Lieutenant’s quarters, a pantry, and a few cots overseen by the man who passes for their physician are inside. While it wasn’t anything fancy, it served their purposes just fine.

Alexander watches as Laurens continues towards the building. His back is ridged, his shoulders tense, despite the injury. He doesn’t need to turn around for Alexander to know the man’s lips are twisted in displeasure. Alexander knows—knew—him well enough to imagine the expression vividly.

“That was a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Laurens chastises.

Blinking in surprise—and hurt—Alexander eyes the distance between them. The three feel may as well be three miles. Pressure is once again bearing down on Alexander, one pound for every inch between them.

Laurens doesn’t stop walking.

Suddenly afraid that he will miss his opportunity, he only just manages to rein his impulses in enough to reduce his sprint forward into a trot. Angling himself in front of Laurens, he throws his arms wide. His voice comes out coated in equal amounts disbelief and anger, “What do you mean, he could’ve really hurt you. Someone that inexperienced—that young—has no business playing soldier with a live weapon, let along in a war.”

Laurens stops suddenly, the movement causing him to rock back on his heels. He somehow manages not to crash into the man in front of him. His face is incredulous, “That’s rich, coming from you. Aren’t you only a few years older than he is?”

Laurens tries to step around Alexander, but Alexander follows the side-step neatly, attempting and managing to put up an imposing front. Or at least imposing enough that it makes Laurens think twice before attempting to body check him out of the way. Alexander considers it a small victory until Laurens rolls his eyes and tries stepping in the other direction. Luckily, Alexander is fast enough, and remembers enough about reading his opponents’ body language during battle—and that’s exactly what this is, he thinks to himself, a battle that he is determined to win—to counter. The maneuver elicits an irritated sound from Laurens, who seems to be seriously considering the use of bodily force—shoulder be damned.

Alexander throws his hands up in a placating gesture. He is sure that if he could just get the other man to understand, come around to Alexander’s way of thinking, they could both happily move on with their lives. So he tries to steer the conversation in his favor, “That’s beside the point.”

Laurens steps forward, crowding Alexander’s personal space. Hands find themselves pressed into the lapel of Laurens’ jacket after Alexander is unable to lower them in time. Alexander watches in fascination as the lines of Laurens’ face shift from annoyed to surprised, then to confused, and finally to mildly unnerved when Alexander doesn’t even bat an eye at the close proximity.

_Alexander Hamilton, 1. John Laurens, 0._

Grinning, Alexander continues unabashedly, “The point is—”

“Why do you care so much?”

It takes him longer than he would like to admit to respond, “… what?”

Laurens pins Alexander with a nasty glare that has Alexander’s mind reeling as if he had just been slapped. Alexander assumes that it must show on his face, because the look softens slightly and morphs from absolute fury to deep suspicion. As Laurens studies Alexander’s face, searching for something, Alexander knows his grasp on the situation is slipping.

It had been fun when he was the one pushing buttons.

Laurens pulls back a bit, scowling, “You act like you fucking **know** me.”

Alexander’s heart sinks. He lets his hands fall to his sides, even though they itch to grab onto the other man. The pair had always been so tactile with one another—though to a far lesser extent during this lifetime—and it hurts Alexander fiercely to know his touch would be rebuked. It’s one of the things that Alexander struggles with most when trying to reconcile this and his Laurens. He takes a deep breath and clenches his fists tightly to keep himself from reaching out. Immediately Laurens’ eyes flirt down to his hands and then back up to Alexander’s face. They share a look before Laurens shifts his weight, preparing for a fight. Alexander curses to himself.

“You’re acting like we’ve been friends for years, even though we’ve only met, what… months ago? What aren’t you telling me,” Laurens all but hisses, shaking his head in disbelief. He takes a step back, then tries to take another, but is stopped by Alexander grabbing for his jacket on instinct.

The wrist is caught before it even comes close.

The grip around Alexander’s wrist is bruising in its intensity. Alexander is reminded that John Laurens is, and always was, much stronger than many of their compatriots give him credit for. He feels his face screw up in pain, hears the air whistle as it’s sucked through his teeth, but the other man looks unmoved. Alexander’s fingers quickly begin to grow numb and he tries tugging his arm from Laurens’ grasp to no avail.

“Le’go,” Alexander tries, giving a pained smile, trying to appeal to his friend’s gentler nature. His eyes ghost over his Laurens’ face, whose features are twisted into a scowl. Eventually, Alexander looks away and his eyes fall on Laurens’ now uncovered shoulder. The fabric of his jacket—as well as the shirt underneath—is torn and bloodied, but it looks like the bleeding has stopped for the most part. Despite everything, Alexander is relieved.

There is a scoff and Alexander’s eyes are once again glued to Laurens’ face. Hazel eyes narrow into slits, “So you can try to punch me again?”

“I wasn’t trying to punch you. I swear. Let go and we can talk about this like adults, Laurens,” Alexander continues, giving his best attempt at a pitiable expression. It doesn’t work, but Laurens does loosen his grip enough for feeling starts to flood back into the extremity. It feels like thousands of needles being stuck into Alexander’s fingers, “Look, I’m… sorry, for before. I lost my cool. I shouldn’t have said that shit, but I was… scared, alright? I admit it. Seeing you hurt scared the bejesus out of me.”

The grip around Alexander’s wrist slackens a bit more. He is tempted to try pulling his hand away and goes so far as twitching his fingers slightly, both to return blood flow and to test the waters. As soon as he does Laurens’ fingers clamp down again. Laurens sends him an annoyed look, to which Alexander just shrugs.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Laurens says. The frustration is thick in his voice when he continues, “It’s like you’re going out of your way to avoid answering me.”

_I know and I’m sorry,_ Alexander thinks. He knows that it isn’t fair, isn’t kind, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s wracks his brain for some piece of information, some memory, something he can use to regain the upper hand—something to take the focus off of himself if only to buy him more time. He digs through his memories and for a brief second there is a spark…

It’s gone as soon as Laurens opens his mouth, “The Alexander **I know** wears his heart on his sleeve…”

Hazel eyes lock onto Alexander’s. For a split second, Alexander wonders if—truly believes—he knows, but then he says, “I’m going to ask you one last time and if you can’t give me a straight answer… or I ever find out you lied to me, we’re done, Alexander.”

Alexander stills completely, his body having gone ice cold. Time feels sluggish and it’s hard to breathe. His heart is racing and he is sure that Laurens feels it too. Alexander’s lips part, the words ready to spill out. He wants to tell someone. He wants to be understood. He wants his friend back. His face contorts—he sees it reflected in Laurens’ eyes—and there is one awful moment where Alexander very nearly tells him everything.

“Jack…” the old nickname spills out of his mouth before he can think better of it and as soon as it does, he knows it was the absolutely wrong thing to say. He watches as Laurens’ eyes go unfocused for longer than is comfortable. The man’s whole body stiffens, face going white as freshly laundered linen. With absolute certainty, he knows that he’s messed up unequivocally.

_I’m not supposed to know, what I know…_

Alexander opens his mouth, but before anything else can come out—like the truth—Laurens is pushing him away by his wrist and storming past towards the farm house. When Alexander makes to follow, he is greeted to a tense “Don’t.” Shortly thereafter, he hears the door slam shut. He simply stands there, wrist still tacky with blood.

Laurens doesn’t return to their tent that night, or the night after, or the night after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult. I wanted to show that for all that Alex has gone through and supposedly learned, he's still prone to making the same mistakes, and that's going to cost him. In this case, his relationship with John...
> 
> Also, as a time traveler, you've really got to be careful of showing how much you know things you shouldn't. Alex is going to need to be real careful with this and learn not to shoot off at the mouth so easily. That there are benefits to talking less, even if it means not showing off or attacking his enemies.

**Author's Note:**

> 8/27/20 - I ended up reworking the entire chapter, switching it from the first person perspective to the third person one. That meant changing pronouns and verb tenses, but also adding more descriptions and additional information. It went from being six pages in word to being close to nine. I'm happier with this version, though I do miss writing in Alexander's voice... but for what's to come, I think this suits the narrative much better. Please let me know what you think.


End file.
